The Reckoning at Gossamer Pond

by Jaime Jo Wright

  “Whaddya want?” he snapped, glaring at Doug who, for the first time Annalise had ever seen, looked uncomfortable.

  “Dad, I’ve brought some visitors—”

  “Really?” His eyebrows shot up in a cranky, sarcastic gesture, and he gave his son a dopey look. “I couldn’t see that.”

  “Dad—”

  “Meh!” The elder Mr. Larson waved his hand in dismissal at Doug. “I’m not ancient and I don’t have dementia. I broke a hip, for Pete’s sake, and I have arthritis. I haven’t lost my senses.”

  “Yes, sir.” Doug shifted his stance. “Dad, this is Garrett Greenwood and Annalise Forsythe. They’ve been doing some—” he paused as if he doubted their story—“research? They wanted to pick your brain about a few things.”

  “Pick away!” Mr. Larson grabbed the TV remote and snapped the set off. He leveled a handsome and rather remarkably charming smile on Annalise. His eyelid dropped in a wink. “I always had a thing for redheads.”

  Annalise bit back a smile. Like father, his son was not. Doug emitted a small sigh and backed away. “I’m going to go check in with the doctors.”

  “You do that!” Mr. Larson raised his voice at his son’s back as Doug made a fast exit. “Tell ’em I want outta here in two weeks so I can get back to my apartment!”

  Doug disappeared.

  Mr. Larson waggled his eyebrows. “Can’t help but pick on the boy. Thinks he built Gossamer Grove himself. He’s so rich and all.” Sarcasm practically dripped from the father’s words. He pointed to two straight-backed wooden chairs. “Have a seat. What can I tell you?”

  Garrett exchanged glances with Annalise, and they both sat simultaneously. He gave her a quick nod. She smiled. She really, really liked Mr. Larson. Maybe because he was one of the few people she’d ever seen put Doug Larson in his place.

  “It’s a long story,” she began.

  “Nope. Skip it. Get to the point.” Mr. Larson’s bark was worse than his bite, but she could tell he wouldn’t have a lot of patience.

  “All right.” Annalise adjusted her weight on the chair and folded her hands as if in prayer. She should pray. Maybe it would help. “I’m here about Eugene Hayes. I have questions about his family.”

  Mr. Larson drew back in his wheelchair. “Eugene! Sure, sure. He was a character. He got me into so much trouble as a kid. Lost touch with him over the years, I guess. But . . . still gonna miss him.”

  Annalise gave the older man a sympathetic smile. “Did you ever know Eugene’s father? Lawrence?”

  A shadow fluttered across Mr. Larson’s face and his grin dissipated. “Hayes. That’s what everyone called him. Just Hayes.”

  “So, you remember him?” Annalise prompted.

  “Sure, I do. Hard to forget a man like that.”

  “Why?” Garrett interjected.

  Mr. Larson scowled at him. “Lawrence Hayes was a dog. Plain and simple.” He wagged his index finger at Garrett. “You Greenwoods have a few of them in your history, so don’t you go getting on your high horse with me.”

  Garrett shook his head. “No high horse here.”

  “Good. What I know about Eugene’s dad was that he caroused with more than one woman, probably had more kids than was ever accounted for, and was quick to use the back of his hand on Eugene.” Mr. Larson clucked his tongue. “Sorry to say, when his dad passed, Eugene was in Vietnam. But still, he told me when he got word it was like he’d won the war.”

  Lawrence Hayes, Deacon Harrison Greenwood’s illegitimate son with Dorothy, had become quite the character. Annalise reached for her purse and pulled a small notebook out. She needed to keep notes, keep her thoughts and questions in order.

  “Did Lawrence ever talk about his father? Or did Eugene know his grandfather?”

  Mr. Larson shot a glance at Garrett. Annalise followed his line of sight. Garrett was stiff, uncomfortable, and she was almost certain if he could, he’d escape through the door right after Doug.

  Mr. Larson focused again on Annalise. “Has anyone ever told you that sometimes it’s better to leave the past in the past?”

  “I’ve lived by that motto,” Annalise nodded wryly. She gave Mr. Larson a sardonic look. “It unfortunately has not worked well.”

  Laughter escaped the older man. He patted his jean-clad knee and then boosted himself up with hands on the arms of the wheelchair to reposition himself. Wincing, he settled in the chair once more. “Hip hurts,” he muttered, then ran his hand down his flannel shirt and nodded. “Okay. No one in Gossamer Grove likes to talk about it, least of all, your family.” Mr. Larson looked at Garrett.

  Garrett squirmed.

  Mr. Larson cleared his throat. “One day, Eugene and I were buying candy at the drugstore and a man came in. Oh, we must’ve been about twelve years old at the time. The man was old. He walked with a cane and wore this old sweater vest that smelled like mothballs. But we knew who he was. Everyone knew who Elijah Greenwood was. The retired town mayor.”

  “Elijah?” Annalise glanced at Garrett.

  “My great-grandfather,” Garrett reiterated.

  Mr. Larson continued. “Elijah Greenwood looked straight through Eugene as if he were made of mist. But he said hello to me. Later, I asked Eugene why he thought Mayor Greenwood ignored him. Eugene straight out said, ‘’Cause he’s my uncle.’ I about fell over dead.”

  So that confirmed the theory. Lawrence Hayes was in fact the half brother of Elijah Greenwood, and Harrison and Dorothy had been having an affair. Annalise jotted it on her pad of paper. She had to keep this straight if only to draw lines later and connect the dots.

  She raised her pencil. “So, Elijah ignored you?”

  Mr. Larson shook his head. “No, he ignored Eugene. The Greenwoods had washed their hands of anything Hayes. I found out later that when Eugene’s grandfather, Harrison Greenwood, died, it all came out and was a huge mess. A scandal.”

  “Do you know how Harrison Greenwood died?” Annalise held her breath. The obituary written so poetically was almost tattooed on her brain. Insinuation that death was deserved. It didn’t line up with a man who’d taken his own life as the town records showed.

  “Well, my little redhead, my memory is a bit sketchy since I was just Eugene’s friend and sorta came into his family history by accident. But, supposedly, Harrison Greenwood hung himself.”

  “That’s what we heard too.” Garrett gave a nod of confirmation.

  “Hold up a minute,” Mr. Larson said. “I haven’t even got to the good part—about that day we ran into Elijah Greenwood at the drugstore.”

  Annalise waited. She looked at Garrett whose knee bounced.

  Mr. Larson coughed into a Kleenex and wiped his mouth. “Well, when I asked Eugene about the old mayor and found out he was Eugene’s uncle, then I became curious. What was it about the Greenwoods not wanting to claim Eugene and his daddy? Sure enough, there was an affair.”

  “Figured that,” Garrett grumbled.

  “Of course you do!” Mr. Larson waved his hand. “Most of Gossamer Grove knows about you Greenwood men. Your own daddy has his own tales to tell.”

  Garrett stiffened.

  “Anyway, Elijah Greenwood supposedly has been one of the few faithful Greenwood men. Never cheated on his wife—so far as the town knows. But your grandpa?” Mr. Larson chuckled. “I can tell you stories about him!”

  Garrett shook his head. “I’m not here about anyone other than Eugene and that side of the family.”

  “Family.” Mr. Larson rolled his lips between his teeth. “Good to hear a Greenwood finally say it. Eugene was always haunted by it. Watching your grandpa and your daddy become mayors. Then your sister, of all people. It’s like the Greenwoods saturate this town, and here he was, a decorated war vet who no one gave two licks about when he returned home.”

  “When he returned home . . .” Annalise recalled the picture of her grandma.

  Mr. Larson nodded knowingly. “He met your grandma, yep. She had your Aunt Tracy. Of course, no on
e talked about that either. Eugene and your grandma had some falling-out, she married someone else, life went on, and it was all hush-hush as such things often are.”

  Annalise felt a knot in her stomach. Her pencil was poised over her notebook. Yes, hush-hush. Even today.

  “So then,” Mr. Larson went on, blinking rapidly as if to clear his thoughts, “the only other thing I know is that Eugene told me his father swore that his mother and Harrison Greenwood never saw justice for their deaths. Lawrence would rant on nights he drank too much. Go on and on about the past. Seemed the only person he ever remembered with any affection was some woman. Some woman who’d tried hard to prove his parents were murdered.”

  “Libby Sheffield?” Annalise raised her eyebrows.

  Mr. Larson scrunched his face in thought. “Not sure. Could be. Anyway, Lawrence would go on about her, about some obituaries. Strange obituaries that showed up before his mother and his birth father were dead.”

  Annalise instantly went cold. Obituaries before someone was found dead? Could it be that the obituaries with the Edgar Allan Poe lines were the original obituaries and the newspaper simply rewrote them to be more appropriate after the deaths were confirmed?

  She looked down at her notepad. “So . . .”

  Mr. Larson shrugged. “So, the newspapers and records say there were investigations, but nothing was ever proven.”

  “Is there anything else? Anything at all you remember Eugene saying?” Annalise urged Mr. Larson.

  He stretched out his hand and she took it. Squeezing her fingers, Mr. Larson spoke, his voice firm and direct. “Eugene said he didn’t think his daddy—Lawrence—said anything but the truth when he drank, ’cause when he was sober, it was all lies. The strangest part was when Eugene was overseas, Lawrence got so stone drunk that he passed out on the steps of the Baptist church. When they found him, he was barely alive. But Lawrence started singing, some old revival song, and he kept whispering ‘The preacher man was right. All along. The preacher man was right.’”

  Chills cascaded up and down Annalise’s spine. Mr. Larson gave her hand one last squeeze and let it go.

  He heaved a sigh. “Just too bad the Greenwoods put the Hayeses on the outs. It’s a darn shame. Especially if they knew what really happened. The story that Gossamer Grove would never tell.”

  “What story was that?” Garrett finally spoke up.

  Mr. Larson raised an eyebrow. “That Elijah Greenwood was more than Lawrence’s half brother—he was Lawrence’s whole brother. Dorothy Hayes and Deacon Harrison Greenwood were having dalliances the entirety of Greenwood’s marriage. His wife couldn’t have children so she made a deal that she’d say nothing of the affair in exchange for the boy. Elijah.”

  “Oh my!” Annalise clapped her hand over her mouth. Garrett sagged back in his chair. Dumbfounded.

  “Yep.” Mr. Larson nodded. “That’s what you get when you play around with what God says isn’t yours to play with. A whole cellar full of secrets, and people prefer to lock it up and throw away the key. Because, really, who wants to face it? It’s better to pretend it never happened. Never happened at all.”

  Mr. Larson folded his Kleenex absent-mindedly and picked a piece of lint off his pants. “Eugene swore one day he’d figure it all out. He’d put all the pieces together and then he’d make the town come clean. Come clean about what happened way back when, come clean about his daddy, and come clean about his own daughter, your aunt.”

  It was all so sad. Just sad and meaningless. Annalise exchanged looks with Garrett. “Eugene died before he could do it,” she murmured.

  Mr. Larson locked eyes with her. “Did he?”

  Those two words were filled with purpose and intent. Annalise stiffened, then blinked away tears that sprang to her eyes.

  “No,” she whispered. “No. He didn’t.” And she would tell the story that Eugene had uncovered. It was what he wanted. When he willed her his trailer, filled with his searching, his findings, and his story.

  Chapter 37

  Libby

  Darkness shrouded the street. The streetlamps had for some reason extinguished, leaving the cobblestone road difficult to traverse. A storm was blowing in. Droplets of rain spit at Libby’s face, mocking her travail down the blustery street. Thunder rolled through the sky like a cannon building to its explosion. Her dress whipped around her ankles, and her cloak flapped behind her, twisting inside out as the wind caught it like a kite. Hair plastered across her face.

  The revelations from her conversation with Paul made her mind spin. But one thing was certain. With Paul finally being honest, the pieces were falling in place—all of them except her own. She certainly wasn’t going to wait for death to visit her. Intent on taking her obituary to the police, Libby had implored Paul to go with her. There was no wisdom, no safety, in going alone. He had started to, but as they walked, Libby realized the man had been imbibing more than the brandy in the basement. The flask he’d lifted to his lips rather frequently was already rendering him useless. She’d left him perched on the steps of the corner drugstore. The remaining seven blocks to the police station was intimidating in the dark, let alone with thunder rumbling in the distance and rain now pelting her face. But the parsonage was on the way. Just knowing the Muellers were nearby gave her some small comfort.

  Libby pushed on, her hand wrapped around her obituary held deep in her dress pocket. Her other hand perched over her eyes to shield them from the rain that continued to bluster.

  “Libby!”

  She froze, spinning around and squinting into the darkness and rain. The outline of a man hurried toward her. No one was out and about but her. No one was venturing to be brave against the oncoming storm.

  “Libby, wait!”

  Her obituary had been penned, her death prophesied by her killer. She needed to be in the safety of the police station. Turning her back to the figure, she pressed into the wind. The rain fell harder now. She pulled her cape around her like a blanket, shielding her dress from being saturated. Lightning flickered in the sky, illuminating the street. Libby looked over her shoulder. The figure was drawing closer. She could hear their footsteps slapping on the wet walkway.

  Run!

  Libby surged forward. Her breath came in snatches, stolen away by the downpour. Up ahead, she could make out the outline of the Muellers’ porch. She could take refuge there too, if need be. Perhaps Reverend Mueller would be home. Or Calvin. Someone to walk the remaining few blocks with her and keep her safe.

  A hand clamped over her shoulder. Libby screamed. Her voice echoed down the empty street and was swallowed by the wind.

  “Libby!”

  “Reverend Mueller!” she shouted into the wind. “Oh, thank the Lord.”

  “Libby, you mustn’t be out in this weather. You’ll catch your death!”

  A strange twist of words. Libby shook her head, raising her voice above the wind. “I need to get to the police station.”

  “No, no. I insist. Come inside first!” Reverend Mueller extended his arm toward their porch. The assaulting rain made it hard to see, and Libby stumbled over a crack in the walk.

  “I really need to, Reverend!”

  Reverend Mueller’s concern was etched into the parts of his face Libby could see. “Come with me. We can use the parsonage telephone to ring the authorities. You should not be out here.”

  The rain beat on the walk, on the street. They were in front of the parsonage now. The reverend stepped onto the first step. “My housekeeper is home. She can make you tea. Calvin has chased after the Corbin brothers and their ruckus of today. Please! Do come in.”

  She hurried up the porch stairs and into the humble but tidy entry of the parsonage. Gaslights lit the hallway. Reverend Mueller gave her a smile and shook his head as he removed his hat, water falling onto the wool carpet. “Gracious, child! You’re an obstinate one.”

  Libby pushed back sopping wet hair from her face. She couldn’t explain, not to him.

  “Let me take you
r wrap.” Reverend Mueller assisted her from her wrap after she unfastened it at her neck. He hung it on a hall tree, drips marring the wood floor beneath it. “Come.” He ushered her down the hallway into a small kitchen. Pulling out a chair, he waved her toward it. “Let me go find Mrs. Beaton. She’ll make you some tea.”

  “Thank you.” Libby shivered from the cold and dampness.

  Reverend Mueller moved to exit the room.

  “The telephone?” Libby asked quickly. She had no desire to prolong going to the police. With Paul’s admission, the pieces of the puzzle finally making sense, she was certain the police would find her obituary legitimate and concerning. This time there would be no demeaning pat on the shoulder, no “We’re looking into it.”

  Reverend Mueller nodded. “Yes. Let me find Mrs. Beaton so she can put on tea and then we can place the call.”

  Libby appreciated his attention to decorum. He left her alone, and she heard his footsteps as he disappeared into the recesses of the house. She glanced around the kitchen. It wasn’t new to her. She’d spent many hours here with Calvin. Growing up together, they played simple games here in the house, games like marbles.

  She eyed the doorway where Reverend Mueller had disappeared through. She needed to tell him. The truth of it hit her hard in the stomach, knotting it and increasing the sense of anxiety that already had increased her rain-soaked shivering. Calvin’s story—her story—was going to be revealed sooner than later. After all Reverend Mueller had been through, watching his strong teenage son turn into a boy who would never fully grow up, he had been the epitome of a devoted father. With a wife already passed away, Libby had caused the man so much pain, so much grief. Calvin was not the only victim of her selfishness, or cowardice, or whatever the reason had been that she didn’t help Calvin that night.